A Change in Fortune Read online

  Stealing a loaf of bread should have been an easy thing, a simple feat John had accomplished countless times since boyhood. But it surprised him very little – what with his recent run of bad luck – that the baker spotted him and cried, "Thief in the market!"

  Usually, this wouldn't matter much either: shoppers were unlikely to risk their health chasing a thief and other hawkers wouldn't leave their goods unguarded. But bad luck had placed a pair of patrolmen in the square, probably the only two who cared enough about a loaf of bread not to give up the chase after a few half-hearted strides.

  John dodged through the crowd and slipped across the street. He glanced back over his shoulder for signs of pursuit and saw none. He turned back, smiling, confident in his escape – and promptly got run down by a horse-drawn cart.

  *******

  "He's alive!" The voice mixed awe with amusement. To John it sounded miles away. If he'd become immune to the pain of human beatings, the same was clearly not true for the trampling of horse's hooves.

  "Make way for the Magistrate!"

  These words made John try to get up and run, but he couldn't have done so even if the patrolmen weren't barring his rise.

  The Magistrate lifted John's right hand and snorted out a short laugh. "I see we've had the pleasure of meeting before then, eh?"

  John felt a tingling where his right index finger used to be. He couldn't focus on the Magistrate, but he knew this was the same bastard who'd taken his finger – the same bastard who'd taken Jimmy's life!

  The Magistrate shrugged and sighed as though bored. "It's a level-two forfeiture then. Bring him to the block."

  The patrolmen dragged John to a blood-stained stump notched with previous axe strokes. The Magistrate drew an axe and followed, whistling tunelessly as he thumbed the edge.

  Through blood-crusted ears and semi-consciousness, John was dimly aware of the crowd's excited yammering: those who wouldn't think of stopping the theft – let alone offering a slice of bread – were more than eager to witness the punishment.

  One patrolman pushed John to his knees in the dirt and then pressed his arm onto the stump with both hands; the other held John steady with a dizzying headlock and a knee across the back of his calves. Gravel stabbed up into John's kneecaps. His forearm scraped across the rough wooden stump.

  "Hold him steady, fool! I want to get this done in one stroke, two at most."

  The Magistrate cracked his neck to each side, stretched his shoulders, and then raised the axe overhead.

  He lined up his stroke, took a deep breath, held it.

  As he blew out his breath, the Magistrate swung the axe down in a glistening arc.

  John watched in detached fascination as the axe swept down and stuck with a solid ka-thunk in the block of wood.

  He saw his hand drop into the dirt.

  And then consciousness mercifully left him.

  *******

  "Mary!"

  John jerked awake. He lay on a cot in a strange room, his arm wrapped in bandages. Beneath the blood-stained wrap, his handless stump burned, a thousand-times worse than the sunburn that would not heal; and it itched, ten-thousand times worse than the lingering bee stings.

  "You should get down on your knees and thank God for saving your life."

  "I've just recently been down on my knees and things didn't go so well," John said to the priest who entered the room. "As for my life, God can have it. He can have this as well." John pushed the idol lying beside him onto the floor. In a moment it was back again, resting against his side like a jealous lover.

  The priest nodded. "How did you come by it?"

  "I found it," John said.

  The priest laughed. "You're a poor liar. Perhaps there's still hope for you."

  "Help me then," John pleaded, clasping hand to stump as if in prayer. "This accursed thing is ruining my life! Take it away from me!"

  The priest shook his head once and sighed. "I've already helped you all I can. But remember this: no mere thing – and no one – can determine your fortune. Only you have that power."

  John rolled over on the cot and faced the bare wall, his back to the priest.

  *******

  Two more days full of bad luck passed, and still John had no solution for losing the idol and winning back Mary. His latest idea was that fire might destroy the thing, so he'd thrown it into a blazing furnace. Now he ran howling down the street like a madman, patting frantically at his smoldering clothes.

  He jumped into a muck-filled gutter and the idol hissed at him as it cooled. He clawed it out of his pants and threw it into the filth; it sank into the mud, its wicked smile the last thing to vanish beneath the dirty water.

  A moment later, the familiar weight returned to his belt.

  John sighed and buried his face in his one remaining hand. He felt like crying but there were no tears left in him.

  And then he felt a clumsy tug at his belt. . . .

  Someone was trying to steal the damned thing!

  John's first instinct was to round on the inept thief. But then he'd stolen the pouch from Wilcox, so that must be the answer – the idol had to be stolen away to be gotten rid of!

  John remained still and held his breath as the thief continued to fumble at his belt. After the pouch was finally cut away, John took a deep breath and turned with relief to watch the cursed fool run off.

  But relief turned sour in his stomach when he saw that the thief was just a boy, and no older than Jimmy had been when John first prodded his son onto the path that had ultimately led to his early death.

  John leapt up, sprinted after the boy, tackled him to the ground, and snatched the pouch back.

  "I'm sorry," the boy stammered. "I was just so hungry!"

  John realized it was Shawn – the little wretch from outside the bar.

  "John?" the boy said. "I didn't recognize you all beat up and covered in mud like that. Mary will be happy you're still alive."

  Just knowing that Mary had been thinking of him eased John's numerous pains. He smiled down at Shawn. "Chasing money never brought me any luck – no good luck that is – so take my advice and pursue something with more value."

  Mary pushed through the gathering crowd. "John! You've been gone for over a week! Why didn't you come back home?"

  "It's a long story," John said. "And it's not over yet. Take Shawn and get away from me until I can figure this all out."

  "No, John! I just found you again – I won't leave! Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."

  A rumbling murmur spread through the crowd and it parted to allow the Magistrate to pass. John's missing hand throbbed with phantom pain as he approached.

  "You again!" The Magistrate said. "You're up to a level-three forfeiture now, thief – I'll have your head mounted above my fireplace!"

  A patrolman grabbed John as another brought the stump.

  The Magistrate drew his axe.

  John turned to Mary. "Take care of Shawn. Don't let him turn out like me."

  The patrolmen pushed John onto his knees in the dirt, pressed his cheek into the splintered block.

  The Magistrate raised his axe.

  John closed his eyes. He could smell the wood of the block – pine he thought it was, or maybe cedar? But then it was probably oak or some other hard wood to stand up to so many axe strokes. He'd never been too good with wood, never would be now. His father had been quite talented though. John should have paid attention, learned to be a carpenter instead of running the streets. But then where was the thrill and glamour in pounding nails for a living?

  Far away, a bird sang. Another answered back. He realized now that they didn't really sing though, it was really just chirping and squeaking and squawking. His mother had been a terrible singer. Though, like the birds, that hadn't kept her from trying.

  John felt his bladder filling up. He supposed it was true that people soiled themselves when they died. Why should that worry him so much now? What should it matter to him i
f he pissed his britches after he was dead? But then that might reflect poorly on Mary. Maybe he should ask permission to relieve himself in private so as not to embarrass her.

  "Wait!"

  John opened his eyes.

  The patrolman in front of him reached for his sword. John noticed the patrolman had dried blood under his fingernails. And he wore a ring. Was it a wedding ring, John wondered. Did he have children waiting for him, fearful that their father might not make it back home one night?

  The guard shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other and his hand tightened and un-tightened on the sword hilt.

  Shawn stepped into John's field of vision. He had brown eyes – almost black – with bright points of light sparkling with intensity. John had never noticed that before. His eyes looked so out of place in that skeletal head perched atop that scrawny little body.

  Shawn stepped in front of the Magistrate and held up a hand . "Wait! He wasn't stealing from me, sir. He's my father. He saved my life!"

  "It's the truth," Mary said. "He's my husband. This is our son."

  "That's right," someone yelled. "He saved him!"

  John saw Flynn and Glen in the crowd. He even recognized Ralston and the priest among the shouting masses.

  "He's innocent!"

  "Let him go!"

  "Let him go!"

  The Magistrate surveyed the crowd's mood. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and then turned his malicious gaze back on John. "Well, thief, it looks like your luck has changed. For now."

  As John stood, the Magistrate's eyes went to the jeweled pouch; he snatched it from John's belt and smiled. "And now it looks like my luck has changed as well!"

  "Oh, I'm certain of that," John agreed. "And I can think of no one more deserving. . . ."

  John walked away with his arm around Mary and his hand on Shawn's bony shoulder. Though he was as poor as he'd ever been, and was missing his good hand even, he still felt more fortunate than ever before in his life.

  ###

  About the author:

  Mark lives in California with his beautiful wife Panji, who helped him learn that even the rockiest road can lead to a happy ending. Mark is currently working on a novel entitled "Love & Taxes", which he hopes will one day be not only finished, but published and found at your local book store as well.

  Visit Mark at www.mythic-picnic.com or www.genre-trash.com.